


That time of the year

by ChocoNut



Series: Many ways to say I love you [93]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Across seasons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28193211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Every year, in the month of the Seven, people celebrate by invoking special prayers to the gods and giving gifts to their loved ones.ORThe one where Jaime and Brienne, beginning with the time he sends her off with priceless gifts to aid her quest, ensure they keep up the tradition of exchanging gifts every year.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Many ways to say I love you [93]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1234904
Comments: 20
Kudos: 71
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	That time of the year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KayJayTeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayJayTeal/gifts).



> This one's for KayJayTeal who mentioned a prompt about Jaime and Brienne giving each other the perfect gifts though not quite planning it.
> 
> I wanted to sign up for the JB Festival Exchange, but somehow missed the deadline. But then, as I was working on this ficlet earlier today, I was lurking through the prompts and thought this might fit yours (though it might not be exactly what you're looking for)
> 
> This "tradition" is something I made up. Hope you like it.

First, he handed her his prized sword, and now, seconds later, before his gesture can even sink in, he uncovers another surprise that takes her breath away. And Brienne, except for blushing despite her hard efforts to fight it and her shy promise to find Sansa and help him keep his word, can do nothing at all to calm down her raging emotions.

“I almost forgot,” Jaime murmurs, stepping away from the armour. “There’s one more gift I have for you—”

“You’ve already done so much for me! You can’t keep—”

“This goes beyond rescuing Sansa.” In his eyes is a look that tells her he’s wondering how to break it to her. “It’s—I know it’s not well known these days but—” he turns, walks back to the sword “—this is that time of the year when the Seven are invoked—”

She follows him to the table. “I’m aware of that.” It has been a while, though, since her family has actually practiced it. “But I’ve never really seen anyone follow it in Tarth.”

“Father continues to insist on it,” he explains, telling her how his family has been diligently abiding by the tradition of this month being that for special prayer. “And as you know, with it comes the gesture of offering a gift to those we—” he breathes in deeply “—to those who have made a significant impact on our lives.”

Brienne recalls the stories she’s been fed with as a child. While at home such a thing isn’t prevalent, those indulging in the celebration isn’t unheard of either. Although, Jaime bowing to something like this doesn't exactly fit with the ideals of the man she knows. “But you don’t believe in the gods,” she thinks aloud, still at a loss as to why he’s engaging in this.

“There’s also this superstition that if I let you ride away empty-handed, as the years pass, you’ll forget me,” he says, like the little boy that must have believed the tale with no doubt nor question. “I can’t grant you the privilege of letting you forget me so easily, wench.”

She dreads how badly she’s going to miss him. “Because I’ve been a tough nut to crack?” she jests, taking refuge in this one cover that might aid her in tackling the varied rush of feelings threatening to overpower her.

He chuckles, traces a gentle forefinger down the length of the blade resting on the table. “Still having doubts about that?”

His severed hand, his death-defying leap into the pit that might have been her end, his defiant insistence to snatch her from Locke—it all comes back in a mixed flash of memories. “Tradition demands I give you something too.” Knowing she can’t do better, she unhooks the pin on her chest and hands it out to him. It feels only apt that he should be left with something that truly defines her, a symbol of her identity.

He welcomes her humble offering with a look of fondness. When he takes it, their fingers brush again, and with it, sets in a tingling that travels right down to her toes. “It’s yours, Ser Jaime. Something of mine in return for—” She strokes the lion’s head decorating the sword. Superstition, she doesn’t believe in, but she can’t think of a life where she’d forget him. Not that she’ll need anything to restrain him to her memory.

His hand closes around the little piece bearing her sigil. “Something as close to you and private as this—what does this imply, my lady?”

Brienne’s chest tightens. She doesn’t answer. She knows exactly what it means, and she can’t bring herself to tell him.

+++++

“Dornish silk!” 

Awestruck, Brienne runs her hand over the flowing fabric on her lap, no suitable words coming to her mind in admiration of the intricate craftsmanship and what it must have cost him. The dress is a little different from what women there prefer to don—not too revealing, nor too concealing, curved where it’s meant to be, straight where her body would expect it to be. Even so, she cannot imagine herself in it. “Does he really think I’m ever going to wear something like this?”

“I don’t see why you can’t,” Pod appreciates in his cheerfully good-natured way. “It’s a beautiful blue and—” the lad grins “—Ser Jaime has good taste, m’lady.”

“He sure does.” She glances down at the perfectly sculpted armour that’s second skin to her and returns to the letter that explains his choice.

 _Blue is a good colour on you, my lady_ , he writes—the first real, aptly-phrased compliment he’s ever graced her with. _It goes well with your eyes._

She stops for a minute, re-reads those lines, her finger gently running across the only nice thing anyone has ever said about her.

_Since I happen to be at Dorne now, and now happens to be that time of the year again, I couldn’t think of anything better. I’m doing this because—_

There’s a little smudge there, a longer gap than usual before he goes on.

_—because, as you know, tradition demands me to comply with it. Because, as I told you, I can’t let you escape with the privilege of forgetting me so easily._

“What are you going to give him, my lady?”

Brienne looks up from the letter, only one thing coming to her mind—the best she can think of. “A golden lion for the Golden Lion.” 

Putting her quill to parchment, she begins a reply detailing what she’s about to do. _Because it happens to be that time of the year, and because tradition demands it, a shirt, it is, for you, this time then, Ser Jaime, with your sigil embroidered on it by my own hands. A golden lion on your chest. As it should be._

She pauses, amusing herself for a moment as she pictures his disbelief upon consuming this piece of information.

 _Before you raise your brows and widen your eyes, before you can question my ability—yes, I can sew and embroider_ , she confirms. 

Done, she’s about to put away her little note. But somewhere in her head, when his words come ringing from the past _,_ she adds, _I hope I got your measurements right._

+++++

“Do you even understand how gifts work, wench?” he gently admonishes when she hands out the sword to him. There’s a slight edge to his voice, a sign that he’s stung that she considers it a loan instead of treating it as her own. “Are you unaware of the unspoken rule that they’re never to be returned?”

Knowing what he’s capable of, Brienne concedes, fastens Oathkeeper back to her waist, but this mention of gifts sets off something else in her mind. “It’s that time of the year—”

“—I remember too,” Jaime sighs, walking the length of the table all the way to the other end and back to her again. “And I have nothing to give you this time. If this weren’t a chance meeting, if only our circumstances were more favourable—”

“But you _did_ give me something, Ser Jaime.” That he’s agreed to grant her a chance with the Blackfish is more that she can ever bargain for. “You gave me your word to take Riverrun without bloodshed. I’m never going to forget that.” She prods around her mind, tries to come up with something to keep up with her side of the tradition. “But I come to you empty-handed, I have nothing in return to give you—”

“Oh, but you just did.” His eyes, once again, are on the bejewelled lion on her waist. “You agreed to keep my—” 

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his eyes light up as if he—

“Ser Jaime—” 

“It’s yours,” he says, his voice softer than the softest silk. “It will always be yours.”

Her sigh in return for his—that is her only acknowledgement. There’s one more thing that torments her, though it's something that will always remain with her, never to make it to her lips.

_You will never leave my heart._

+++++ 

She joins him as he gazes upon what might, perhaps, be the last sunset of their lives. 

“You resorted to an abrupt exit when I sought you out at the training yard,” he complains, sensing her footsteps before she can make it all the way to him.

“And you didn’t tell me what brings you to Winterfell,” Brienne lays down her side of it. It began with the gripping expectation of how that sentence might end, only to end with crushing disappointment when it met its death without quite meeting its end. If either of them perished in tonight’s battle, she’d never know how he’d meant to finish it.

Like her, Jaime, too, takes it not as a question but a mere comment, uses the quiet around them to admire the drowning sun.

“It’s that time of the year again,” she suddenly recalls, overcome by a deep wish to keep up their yearly ritual.

“And tradition demands I give you something—” he turns to her “—but I have nothing except—” He reaches out to hold her hand.

Everything within her comes alive, at once, his touch transforming her from a fierce commander to a tongue-tied maiden. 

“I don’t want to die tonight without giving you the only thing I have left—” There’s so much in his eyes, his unsteady voice. She can see he’s struggling, and despite that, she knows he wants to go on unobstructed this time. “But only if you—” he breaks away, but picks up and continues “—if you’ll have me.”

“Tradition demands that I give you something in return, Ser Jaime,” she offers from the depth of her heart. “And I have nothing except—” Unable to go on, she blinks back her tears, grasps his hand tighter. 

Jaime brings his lips to hers. “This is the best gift anyone has given me, Brienne.”

+++++

She takes a moment to caress the golden lion she’d laid out on his shirt. “I did get your measurements right,” she comments on her handiwork as she can’t help gazing at her handsome husband on their wedding night. Like a shy new bride would, with trembling fingers, she goes on to pull it off him. “Never thought I might, one day, be stripping you of it.”

Jaime steps closer, his hand on her shoulder, his stump resting on her waist. “Blue is, indeed, a good colour on you, my lady,” he whispers, playing with the loosely hanging sleeve of the undone dress clinging on to her. “Goes well with your beautiful eyes.” 

A tug, he gives it, and the exquisite silk swishes away to a pool around her ankles leaving her naked and his to touch and devour. “I _did_ dream about peeling it off you, Brienne,” he reveals, his fingertips trailing down the valley between her breasts as his mouth meets the burning need in hers. “Several times.”


End file.
